Tag Archives: lupus

It’s cool, I workout

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I workout you know. Well, as of today. Never mind that I can still taste the chocolate chip cookie that I ate on my way out the door while I step on the treadmill. I am on a treadmill and my feet are moving. And get this, I am in a gym, a real gym, with really fit people.

I like fit people. They work hard to be fit. They don’t intimidate me, they motivate me. I like watching them run and sweat, maybe one day I will run like the fit people at the gym.

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I haven’t been a member of a gym in about 7 or 8 years. A lot has happened since then. I did work out in that time period, just not in a gym. So this idea came about when Jake and I were discussing how bad my lupus was last week and what was I doing differently this summer when I was feeling better. I was working out, mainly walking and doing yoga. So I immediately made a plan to push through the pain and begin to put one foot in front of the other.

First step, join the gym. Second step, put on my super duper bright gym shoes.

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Sometimes people stop and say to me “cool shoes”. And I say “thanks” and smile. But I’m really thinking, “did they mean to say cool shoes, or were they so overwhelmed by how bright they are, they were startled and that’s all they could come up with?” Sometimes I reply, “thanks, they make me run faster” and then watch them look me up and down seemingly a little confused because I clearly don’t run.

Enough about my ridiculously bright shoes, their brightness does not help me at all. But I will tell you what does. My t-shirt. As I was reluctantly getting ready for the gym I was losing motivation. So I thought I will at least get dressed. Luckily, my Mr. Rodgers shirt was on top of the pile.

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And for some reason I think it’s really funny, which brightens my mood, and tonight helped get me out the door to the gym. Also, the fact that I told Jachin I didn’t want to go and he said I had too. He’s a real meanie.

So I’m finished on the treadmill. I have enough OCD in me that I have to stop on an even number. Here’s to you mom:

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I know it’s not much, but it’s a start. I’m trying to retrain my body to find the will to live, not kill myself on my first workout. It’s baby steps. (Please tell me you picture Bill Murray’s face every time you hear the words “baby steps”). I did a few weight machines and I think I felt one single bead of sweat trying to break through, so I called it good.

Mission accomplished. Well, not the entire mission, just one barely workout.

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That is all.

My Pain is Real, and So Is Yours

Warning: this is not funny. Every now and then I am serious.

I have precious friends. They love me to the ends of the earth. When I say I cannot live without them, believe me, I mean it. My sweet friend Simone says she doesn’t know exactly how to process some of the things I write. I don’t know what that means. I think she gets concerned because my life always seems too complicated. My life is too complicated because God wants it to be. I believe everybody I meet and know is struggling with something. To what degree only they and God really know.

I told Simone not to worry about me until I lost my sense of humor. But tonight I have lost my sense of humor and I still don’t think she should worry, or anybody else for that matter.

Everybody is different and everybody is the same. Simple, right? We all hurt, we all struggle, and we all survive. How we do all those things is what makes us different.

So tonight I am laying in bed because my body is in so much pain I literally can no longer put one foot in front of the other. I think if my house was on fire, I would barely be able to crawl out.

Everyone stay calm. Nobody needs to bring a casserole, this is not a SOS. This is just me writing about my physical pain. No one needs to come running over. This is my life and me and my husband and kids are somewhat used to it. We know how to survive it. Sometimes our survival doesn’t look pretty and sometimes it is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. Sometimes we yell and sometimes we cry and sometimes we hold each other so tight time stands still. It’s all a lesson, a learning curve, and even though it is so hard and sometimes feels too hard, it’s a curve I want to be on because God uses it to make me who I really want to be. I want to be humble and wise so I can be used effectively to minister to the brokenhearted. So it is okay for me to be in pain and it is okay for me to lose my sense of humor because good comes out of the suffering. Beauty from ashes, right?

So I rethought what I told Simone. Years ago I told her something somebody else had told me. “Without hope we have nothing.” Lenny said it to me, I don’t remember about what, but it stuck with me. So when I lose hope, that is when you should bring over casseroles and interventions and whatever you have in your bag of tricks. When I have lost hope, that is when you should come. Hope is a terrible thing to lose. And feeling hopeless is much worse than being in pain, in my opinion.

I have only one time in my life lost all hope. It was a dark time and I was so sick. So sick I can’t even comprehend it looking back. I wanted to die. I had lost hope. God restored my hope over time and now I lay here feeling very sick, but not hopeless.

My heart is sad about a few things, my mind is racing about all the things I have to get done, and my body is not working, but my hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness. He is the ultimate hope giver.

Do not lose hope. And if you do, call me and I will bring you some tacos.

And just because I love me some pictures, here is a little pic of me lying sick in bed, just so you can have a pathetic visual.

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